http://slow.writerscafe.org/pilgrimsoulinme The original writings of author Jo en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776123350 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 yes,there is somethingdelightfully delicious in this denouement, the taboo in you.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/750183/ Sometimes I feel like I’m forging roads that don’t existto places that stay unmappedto people who don’t breathe to hearts that never beatto feel something that remainsunnamed.Like words I never wrote.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/750181/ An excerpt on a novel that I may write one day... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/750178/ it felt like drowning only i liked it that you were filling my lungs that i couldn’t breathe that i was grasping at your shirt my hands fluttering like leaves and i could see the sun pouring laughing throwing her head back and sighing like a jealous jaded ranee watching as you locked me beneat.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/750172/ My first attempt at writing something to make people laugh. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749732/ My response to Sonnet 116. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749723/ this is a poem I wrote for my friend who texted me a midnight beneath a bridge in London, lamenting over some jerk ex-boyfriend. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749722/ I can’t stand how our shadows get tocriss-cross and dance together on the sidewalk beneath the rhythmic suneven though I can’t touchyou. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749684/ there may have beenlove in the way you stretched my neckand tumbled your hand up my thigh.but love walked out the door that day with a pair ofpatent leather Pradas and a sigh. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749682/ If my words were cups,I’d fill them for us and comeBearing my regrets.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749672/ This is a poem I wrote when asked why I write. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749664/ These hands are mine. They are not my mother’s hands. They’ve held the bridges ofViolins and dusty novels,Curved ‘round frets andLoved faces fraught with Frail sunlight,They’ve cradled pens and .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/pilgrimsoulinme/749662/